


blame the weather

by softnow



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, First Time, Fluff, Smut, X-Files Porn Battle, just some platonic banging between platonic work partners nbd, season 6
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2018-06-29
Packaged: 2019-05-30 12:27:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15096713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softnow/pseuds/softnow
Summary: it all comes back to the rain.





	blame the weather

**Author's Note:**

> written to fill [the x-files porn battle](xfpornbattle.tumblr.com) prompt 35: mulder finds scully wearing his knicks jersey.

It all comes back to the rain. Them, here, now, this—it’s all thanks to the rain. Six-plus years of partnership, of trust, of unflinching dependability, and he owes it all to one downpour in a little town in Oregon. Other, more pressing things he owes to the rain: Scully here, at his desk, in her glasses, in his shirt. And not just any shirt. His Knicks shirt. The one with the sleeves cut off and the hem beginning to unravel. The one he’s imagined so many times draping over her after he’s memorized every inch of her small body. Here, Scully, you can sleep in this.

He’s never been so grateful for a foot chase in a deluge, or for the street flooding that prevented Scully from getting back to Georgetown afterwards. And he’s never been so grateful to live where he does, close enough to bring her home with him, to offer her first crack at the shower while their clothes tumble in the dryer. She used most of the hot water, but he doesn’t mind, because thinking about her standing in his tub, soaping herself with his soap is dangerous thinking—cold-shower-required thinking. 

Not that the tepid shower really did any good though, because…here she is. At his desk. In his shirt. With one foot tucked casually under her and the other swinging in circles, and she’s wearing his socks, too. The thick wool ones. They slouch down her calves and pool at her ankles like leg warmers, so many sizes too big, and there’s something about it that makes his heart squeeze in his chest. 

She looks so young and fresh, devoid of makeup, her hair curling at the ends as it dries. If he didn’t know better, he could almost imagine she’s never wrestled a suspect twice her size to the ground in the pouring rain, cold-cocked him and handcuffed him, and walked away with little more than a bruised knee and a scratched cheek. But he does know better, and he’s glad, because to see her only like this—soft and relaxed at the end of the day—without seeing her surgeon’s hands and her fighter’s stance and her whip-smart tongue would be to do her a disservice. Dana Scully is not a woman to be taken in pieces. Dana Scully is all or nothing.

“Clothes should be done soon,” he says, as much to announce his presence as to give him something to do with his mouth besides gape. “What are you doing?” 

He drops into the chair beside the desk and tries very hard not to look at her legs. Between the tops of the socks and the hem of his shirt, they are smooth and wonderful and bare and Jesus Christ, is she wearing anything under there?

“Writing my report. Or… _trying_ to.” She lifts a hand to remove her glasses and gifts him a glimpse of the side swell of her breast. The cut-off arms expose a lot more of her than they do of him, and he adds scissors and his own vanity to the list of things he’s grateful for. “Mulder, what happened out there?”

“We got our guy. Or should I say, _you_ got our guy with those Ric Flair moves of yours. Very impressive, g-woman.” He’s going for a smile, but he’ll take the quirk of her brow as she turns to face him.

“He had a mandible. He—he tried to _bite_ me with it. And then I cuffed him and turned him over and it was gone. How is any of that possible?”

“You ever see _The Fly_ , Scully?”

She narrows her eyes and purses her mouth, and he can’t quite hold back his smile, because he knows exactly what comes next.

“Are you seriously suggesting Ralph Morrison was part of some scientific experiment that scrambled his DNA with that of—of a beetle?”

“Why not?” He leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees. His hands are close enough to brush her leg. All he’d have to do is extend his fingers, and he’d be right there. “You of all people know the kinds of scientific leaps being made behind closed doors. Who knows what was going on out at that lab.”

She snorts and shakes her head. “Skinner’s going to love this.”

“Ah, come on. ‘Bug-man murders family and flees on foot’ is hardly the strangest thing you’ve written in a report. Hey, remember Greg Pincus? Now _that_ was one bugged-out dude.”

She tries to glare at him and smiles instead. It starts in her eyes and moves to her lips—just the corners at first—but then her cheeks get involved and the next thing he knows, wonder of wonders, those are her teeth peaking out at him. She’s been smiling at him like this more frequently, but it still feels like winning the lottery.

“Yeah, okay.” She shifts in the chair and draws her other leg up under her, revealing a familiar strip of blue cotton beneath the hem of his shirt. He can’t help it; he stares.

“I couldn’t find any sweatpants,” she says, her cheeks pink, and it’s a blatant lie. He only has four drawers and his sweats are right on top, unmissable. Scully—his partner Scully, Special Agent Scully—just wanted an excuse to wear his underwear.

“They look better on you.” He doesn’t even need to see more than that little scrap to tell it’s the truth. There’s nothing on earth that wouldn’t look better on her. 

Outside, lightning halves the sky and a roll of thunder follows. Rain beats a harsh rhythm on the window, but in here, in the soft lamplight glow of his living room, Mulder is staring at the sun. Scully’s blush deepens and she turns away from him—back to her report, to responsibilities, to pretending she’s as buttoned up as ever, who knows—and it’s the last thing he wants. He’s out of the chair and kneeling beside her before he can think about it. He cradles her cheek and guides her mouth down to his.

It isn’t their first kiss. That honor belongs to the night at the ball field, where he’d given her a present and she’d given him one right back: her body pressed tight against his and her sweet, clear laugh in his ears and after, in the parking lot, her hands on his shoulders and her lips on his. There have been other kisses since—hello kisses and goodbye kisses and tentative just-because-we-can kisses. But none of them—save for maybe that first one, with only the stars and the breeze as their witness—have felt this intimate.

Perhaps it’s because she’s barely clothed. Perhaps it’s because she made herself at home without him having to invite her to, stealing from his drawers and commandeering his computer and curling up in his chair like she owns it. Like this is a regular Friday night thing—and in a way, it is. A case, a chase, the aftermath. It’s not the first storm they’ve weathered together, not even the first they’ve weathered here, but it is the first she’s spent wearing his underwear and smiling at him _like that_ and kissing him _like this_. 

Dana Scully, he’s been delighted to discover in recent weeks, has lips that could topple empires. When she kisses him, he’s certain he could live and die by the glide of her tongue, the soft exhale of her breath in his mouth. But when she kisses him like this—slow and languid, all gentle suction and teasing nibbles—he’s not entirely certain he isn’t already dead.

Her skin is soft and she smells like her, but also like him. His soap, his shampoo. It’s intoxicating and stirs something within him, something primal and male, a prideful possessiveness that makes him want to throw her over his shoulder and pound his chest. You, Scully. Me, Tarzan. She’d hate it, so he doesn’t say a word, just kisses her harder.

She cups the back of his head with both hands and threads her fingers through his damp hair, tugging gently. A noise bordering on desperate escapes his throat at the sensation, but she swallows it eagerly and holds him closer. His free hand finds the bare expanse of her thigh to steady himself. He massages it with his palm, skating higher and higher until his fingertips brush the edge of his boxers. He freezes.

This is new territory. He’s never touched her like this before. She’s seemed content with soft, stolen kisses, never pushing any farther, and he hasn’t wanted to ask for something she isn’t ready and willing to give. 

He’s about to retreat to the safe zone of her knee when her hand comes over his and nudges it higher, guiding him under the hem of the shirt, over her hip, over the top of the boxers, rolled at her waist. He knows it’s illogical, but she feels even softer here. He traces the puckered scar of her gunshot wound and her stomach flexes. She bites his bottom lip and soothes it with soft flicks of her tongue as his hand moves as if drawn by a magnet, up and up until it meets the warm underside of her breast. 

“Scully,” he says, pulling away from her hungry mouth with more than a little regret. “Are—are you—”

Thunder crashes hard enough to rattle the windows in their frames as she rests her forehead against his.

“Shh,” she says. 

“Are you?” she says. 

It’s all he needs. Her small breast is heavy and full in his hand. He squeezes her and she arches into him, her nipple hardening against his palm. She kisses his cheek, his chin, the corner of his mouth as he slips his other hand beneath the shirt to cover her other breast and this is really happening. He’s really fondling Dana Scully’s tits. He’s imagined it so many times, but nothing could prepare him for the warm weight of her, for the way she leans into his touch, for the breathy little gasps she makes as he thumbs her nipples. 

The rain, he thinks dimly. He’s here because of the rain. If it were any other night, she’d be at home in her pajamas. But it isn’t any other night, it’s _tonight_ and there’s rain and she’s in his clothes and in his hands and he makes a note to send up offerings to Zeus and Chaac and Indra, and to maybe write a thank-you note to Holman Hardt, just in case.

In the meantime, though, he’ll start by making offerings to her. He gives her his mouth and she accepts, sipping benediction straight from his tongue. He worries her nipples between thumbs and forefingers like prayer beads and she sighs a miracle into existence. He’s never been a praying man, but if this is what it means to be holy, he thinks it’s time to start.

He gathers the bottom of the Knicks shirt in his fist and spares a single moment to entertain the idea of having her just like this before pulling it over her head. At first, all he can do is stare. He’s seen her breasts before, of course. Just last summer, he’d seen them, puckered and frozen at the end of the earth. But he’s never seen them like _this_ —flushed and heaving, her nipples red from arousal, from his fingers. 

“You’re staring,” she says like he isn’t aware, and he realizes she might be nervous. Scully. Nervous. With him. Do wonders never cease?

“You’re beautiful,” he says, because it’s the truth and he needs her to know.

The air feels thicker than it did minutes ago. This is more than just kissing, more than just heavy petting. He could go straight for her chest, and he’d like to. He’d like to taste her sternum and map her collarbones and tongue her nipples until she cries from the sheer bliss of it. But he needs her to know, first, that this is more. That she is more. 

He takes her face in his hands and kisses her once, twice, sweetly, softly. When he pulls back, his eyes stray to the cut on her cheek. He traces it first with his fingertips and then with his mouth. It doesn’t look nearly as bad as it did on the street now that she’s cleaned it. Just a thin pink line, not even deep enough to scar. She’s had worse, so much worse, because of _him_ and yet she’s here, trembling in his arms, carding her hands through his hair, letting him look and touch and feel. 

There’s been some cosmic mix-up, he’s sure, to allow someone like him to have this with someone like her, but if he thinks about it any longer, he’s gonna lose it. So he kisses her again, slow and reverent, then moves lower—his lips on her neck, her clavicle, the hollow of her throat, teasing and testing until finally, _finally_ he closes his mouth around one pert nipple. Her spine stiffens and her hands twist in his hair, pressing him closer as he sucks at her, and then best of all—

“Oh my _god_.” 

It tumbles from her lips easily, and he’s never been so turned on by those three words. His good Catholic girl, blaspheming just for him. He wants to hear it again, so he raises a hand to her neglected breast and pinches her nipple while his teeth tug at the other. Scully squirms in the chair and pushes against him, groaning low in her throat, but that’s not good enough. His mouth and hand trade places and he eases her into it this time with gentle flicks and squeezes, soft kisses and swirls of his tongue. She sighs dreamily above him and he ramps it up, nipping and pulling and—

“God, _fuck_.”

My, my, my, he thinks. Does your priest know what you do with that mouth?

“Oh god,” she moans again, and maybe there is something to this prayer thing after all. “That feels…oh, god. Please.”

And fuck it if he hasn’t had a million and one dreams of her begging just like that.

“What?” He looks up at her, waits until she meets his gaze, and licks her nipple with the flat of his tongue. Her teeth sink into that plump lower lip and he licks her again. “What do you want, Scully?”

“Touch me,” she says, and he smirks against her breast.

“I am.”

“No. Here.” And then she reaches for his free hand and leads it over her thigh, under the leg of his boxers, over the feather-soft thatch of curls below her belly, then down and _oh_.

Oh, _fuck_.

Here she is. His head swims with the reality of it. No preamble, no big reveal, just Scully, hot and slick in his hand. 

“Jesus Christ, you’re wet,” he rasps, and she _likes_ it, his prim, polished Scully _likes_ it, because she laughs and moans and bucks against him.

“Uh-huh.”

He traces her folds with two fingers, and she sighs as he nudges her open. He can barely believe he’s done this to her. Him. Forget uncovering government conspiracies. Forget catching criminals. _This_ is his greatest achievement.

When he circles her clit and her moan catches in her throat, he’s certain he’ll never do anything in his life half as amazing as this. Scully clutches a fistful of his t-shirt and angles her hips, guiding him lower still, and who is he to deny her anything? He pauses for a moment, thinks _is this really finally happening_ , and then slips his middle finger into her as a flash of lightning throws his living room into sharp relief. Her head rolls back on her neck, her mouth working around empty syllables. 

“Good?” he asks to the curve of her breast.

“Good,” she confirms, squeezing around him. “More.”

He adds a second finger and strokes her from the inside. She’s tight and pulsing and up until now, he’s been doing a pretty good job of not thinking about his cock. But with her lifting her hips to meet him, with her clenching around him when he sucks her nipple or brushes her clit, it’s impossible not to imagine himself sheathed deep within her.

“So good. You feel…so good. Mulder, I— _ah_.” She shoots off the chair when he works a third finger in, following one of his hunches that have gotten him so far in life, and he worries for a second that he was wrong. Then she bears down on his hand, hips swinging and thrusting, and he realizes he couldn’t have been more right. “Oh, I’m gonna—I’m gonna…”

And he’d like that. He’d like that a lot. But there’s something else he’d like more right now, something selfish, and he takes his hand away.

“Muld _er_ ,” she whines—fucking _whines_ , Christ, she’s going to kill him—and tries to pull him back. He grants her a kiss but keeps his hand out of reach.

“I wanna taste you, Scully,” he says into her mouth. “Can I taste you?”

She nods and kisses him and shimmies her hips to help him tug down the underwear, and he sits back on his heels to look. She’s perfect, spread open for him and glistening, and he’s never needed his tongue somewhere so badly before. He presses his face into her lap, nuzzling the soft curls, inhaling her scent, and takes his first taste. She’s salty and tangy and a little bit musky and he’s never going to get enough, of that much he’s sure. 

He licks her folds and her clit, dips his tongue into the depths of her, and she makes the most unholy, amazing noises. But he’s too tall and the chair’s too short and the angle of his neck is all wrong.

“Come here,” he says and slides her down into his lap. Her ass connects with his crotch and for a second, all he can do is gasp into her shoulder as stars explode behind his eyes. He could just take her now. He’s had his taste, and she clearly wouldn’t mind, not with the way she’s moving against him like a wriggly little snake. But he set an intention, and he’s going to see it through.

Mulder shifts so he can stretch out on his back on the rug and grips her waist, pulling her upwards. For the second time tonight, she looks nervous, her lip caught between her teeth and a question in her eyes.

“Scoot,” he says and helps her climb his body until her knees are on either side of his head and he’s face-to-face with the center of the universe. “Sit.”

She hesitates, looking down at him through a curtain of hair, and he curls his hands around her thighs and tugs.

“ _Sit_.”

She sits, and her flavor explodes on his tongue.

“Fuck,” she gasps, and that’s it, that’s the ticket. 

He experiments a little—does she like it when he licks her like this? How about like that? What if he puts his tongue here?—and finds a rhythm that makes her keen. It’s fast and hard and unrelenting—hell on his jaw, but he’ll suffer through TMJ for the rest of his life before he’ll stop this, especially when she starts to move. 

Scully riding his face is quite possibly the single greatest wonder of the world. He thinks of her just hours ago, in her little black pantsuit, a file in her hand, not a hair out of place, and tries to reconcile that image with her _now_ , panting above him, slick with sweat and arousal, her hair messy, her hands on her own breasts, plucking at her nipples. 

It’s amazing, really, that he hasn’t come in his pants yet. 

Especially when her hips falter and her breath hitches and he only has a moment to think _holy shit, this is it_ before she’s coming. It’s like watching a star explode. She makes lights in the sky look cheap and tawdry in comparison. Her body arches and rolls as she shouts down the storm for him. Never in his life has he thought someone else’s orgasm could feel as good as his own, but damn if she doesn’t prove him wrong. It’s bliss, pure and simple, and he’s silly and dumb with it, drunk off the knowledge that he did that. He made Scully scream.

She pants and falls forward on her hands, keeping him trapped in the sweet, sticky darkness between her thighs and her stomach. There are worse places to be trapped. Far, far worse. But then she seems to come back to herself because she yelps “oh, god, sorry! I’m sorry!” and dismounts. He sits up to look at her.

“Sorry?” He catches her hand and kisses her palm. “Scully, I don’t think I could be happier if I tried.”

She grins, all teeth and happiness, and her eyes slip lower. That eyebrow that’s caused so much frustration through the years arches and her tongue darts out to wet her lips.

“I dunno,” she says, inching towards him. “I think you probably could.”

Her small hand descends on him through his jeans and he bucks against her in a way that might be embarrassing if her wetness wasn’t still drying on his chin. He aches for her. _Aches_. He can’t see the clock from here, but he feels like he’s been hard for hours. More than hours. He’s been hard for six years. No amount of adult entertainment or solo gratification has done anything to lessen the insistent throb that’s been building since she first dropped her robe for him on a night not unlike this one.

“Okay, yeah, fine,” he hisses through his teeth as she squeezes him. “You’re right, you’re—Jesus…”

“Mm, no, I’m Scully.” She nuzzles the side of his neck and is he still alive? Is he still in one piece? Somebody open an x-file on this, because surely it’s impossible. “And _you_ are overdressed.”

If they gave awards for quickest undressing, Mulder would win gold by a landslide. He tears his shirt over his head and squirms out of his jeans and boxers, and in less than a minute, he’s bare-assed on his living room floor with his equally bare-assed partner. 

He stares at her and she stares at him, and for a moment, they could be anywhere. They could be in a graveyard at midnight. They could be in an autopsy bay at six am. They could be in countless roadside motels in countless cities. In warehouses, in offices, in hospitals, in cars. But then he reaches for her and she reaches for him and they are colliding planets out of orbit that can only be here, now.

When she finally, _finally_ , wraps her hand around his cock and gives him a slow, experimental jerk, root to tip, he dies and is reborn a new man. When she kisses his cheek and then leans lower, her breath ghosting over his abdomen, he just plain dies.

“Scu-uh…” His fingers thread through her hair, encouraging her journey even as his brain screams for the brakes. “If you actually want this to go anywhere, you probably shouldn’t—”

“Hey, Mulder? Shut up.”

And then—

_And then_.

At least half of all the fantasies he’s ever had comes true as her pink tongue darts out to lick away the dewdrop of moisture on the head of his cock. She squeezes the base and traces him with her tongue like an explorer in a new land, like she can catalogue every bump and ridge, every flavor, every pulse beneath his skin. Ever the scientist, his Scully.

He gazes down at her, transfixed by the improbable image of her, naked and bent over him, her mouth closing around his tip. It’s lewd and incredible and the best fucking thing he’s ever felt in his whole life, holy shit, Scully, where’d you learn to move your tongue like that and can you do it again, Jesus fucking Christ. 

She blinks up at him, a smirk in her eyes, and he’s only vaguely aware of saying any of that out loud. His grip on her hair tightens when she begins to suck and he has to practically shove her away when her other hand comes up to cradle his balls, because there’s no way in hell he wouldn’t come from that in two seconds flat.

“Good?” she asks, the minx, swiping her thumb over her bottom lip.

“Like you don’t know.” 

He draws her to him and kisses her soundly. Her mouth tastes like him, and it’s never been something he’s found particularly enjoyable before, but she might make a believer out of him yet. She straddles one of his legs and rubs herself against his thigh, and when he pulls back to see her, she has fire in her eyes.

“So how are we doing this?” she asks, like it’s some tactical maneuver and not the one thing they’ve been dancing around for years.

He kisses her jaw. “Anyway you want.”

They end with her on her back, his forearms bracketing her head and her legs splayed wide to make room for his hips. She kisses him long and slow, one of her hands between their bodies to guide him in. As his cock brushes the scorching heat of her, he thinks that he should have taken her to bed, or at least to the couch, because this is _Scully_ for Chrissake and she deserves sheets and pillows and soft surfaces, not this rug with its ground-in Cheeto dust, and when was the last time he vacuumed anyway, and oh god, she’s going to have rug burn on her ass, and what if she already does and—

She lifts her hips.

He stops thinking.

She’s everything he knew she’d be and so much more. Tight, hot, her muscles rippling around him as she adjusts to his size. Her brow furrows and she bites her lip as he sinks all of the way in, and he pauses, fighting against every animal instinct in his body to give her the moment she needs. She pulls him down to rest his forehead against hers and they share the same breath. Short, hitched. It’s so much. Almost too much, and all he can do is move.

Her arms tighten around him as he pulls away and glides back in. She gasps his name and her voice in his ear is as sweet as honey and twice as thick. It’s like coming home.

“Is this…” He grinds his hips and she clenches around him and he chokes. “How—how do you feel?”

“Good.” She kisses his cheek. “Amazing.” His neck. “Full.” His mouth.

His muscles strain and his pelvis aches with the slowness of their rhythm. He could come from this—he could come from just about anything, he’s sure, as long as she was involved—but he’s not so sure about her. She rocks against him lazily, without any sort of insistence, and if he were a better man (a stronger man) he’d give her this sweet rutting until the sun comes up. But he’s not a better man; he’s a man pushing the edges of his self-control, and he needs her to lose it with him.

He shifts his weight to rest on one arm and reaches for her leg with the other. He hooks her knee into the crook of his elbow and presses it up, changing the angle, and when he slides home this time, Scully’s head snaps back and her eyes squeeze shut and she moans, long and low. He speeds up, driving into her with more urgency, and she spurs him on with clenched thighs and a curved spine.

“Fuck. _Fuck_. Mulder—god.” He twists his arm to fit between their bodies, and it’s a little bit of a stretch, and the angle’s awkward, and his forearm aches, but he manages to find her clit with his fingertips and it’s worth it for the way she whimpers. “Right there. Right there, like that, yes, yes, yes, Mulder, yes, please, yes.”

Of all the ways he’s imagined Scully in bed (or on the floor), loquacious was never one of them. It’s incredible. He joins her with his own string of nonsense, _yes_ es and _god_ s and _fuck, Scully, fuck fuck fuck like that_ s.

She rakes her nails down his spine and he’ll feel the sting in the shower tomorrow and it’ll hurt almost as good as it hurts right now. In return, he buries his face in her neck and bites the sensitive skin there hard enough to make her shudder. She sobs his name, clamps down on him in every possible way, and comes. Just like that. And it’s so good, so deliriously, unbelievably good, because it’s for him, she’s crying out for him and bucking for him, and it’s her, it’s _her_. He holds on for a second longer, just long enough to see her face, before the spasm of her body pushes him over the edge, and he spills into her with a groan and two erratic pumps of his hips. 

The world fades away and he’s aware of only his heartbeat racing behind his ears. Gradually, other things return. A sting in his knees, rug burnt no doubt. Sweat pooling in the small of his back. His cock, twitching as it softens. 

And Scully. 

God, and Scully. She’s never looked so beautiful. Her hair is a disaster, knotted and stuck to her flushed, damp cheeks. She looks like she does after a chase, after she’s gone a few rounds with a suspect, only better, because there’s no danger now and her lips aren’t bruised from a punch, but from his kisses. And her pupils are blown wide from adrenaline, sure, but also—maybe—if he’s lucky (and he’s feeling pretty damn lucky)—from something else.

“Hey,” she says, breathless and soft.

“Hi,” he says, and kisses her, because what else can he do?

“That was…”

“Worth every year?”

“Something like that.” She grins, and he feels it in his ribcage.

Slipping out of her, he rolls to the side, careful to avoid the coffee table, and pulls her close. She slides a leg between his and rests her cheek over his heart. 

He can barely believe it. The proof is here in their slick, sticky bodies, in her drooping eyelids, in the delicious, satisfied ache he feels all the way to his bones. But he can still barely believe it. That they really did it. That it was really so easy when everything else is always so hard. He holds her closer and times his breaths to hers. In, out. Even. Safe.

They lie like that for a while, just holding each other, just breathing.

“The rain stopped,” she says after so long he’s begun to think she might be asleep.

He strains an ear, and she’s right. All is quiet. Even his neighbors, the ones who like to yell. The silence weighs heavy like a blanket over their tangled limbs. The flooding has probably gone down, too.

“Do you want to go?” He won’t stop her if she does, as much as he’ll want to. He knows Scully, knows how she guards herself and needs space to process things. If that’s what she needs tonight, after this, he’ll let her have it. Even if it means going to bed alone.

“Hmm.” She stretches against him and settles down more firmly, nosing his chest hair. “No.”

He hides his grin in her hair. “Okay.”

“But Mulder?”

“Yeah,” he says. Anything, he thinks.

“Can we not sleep on the floor?”

He laughs. He can’t help it. She fucked him and she wants to stay with him and all she needs is a mattress. He loves her so much.

“Yeah. Yeah, Scully, we can not sleep on the floor.”

But they do, at least for a little while. And when they finally peel themselves off the rug, stiff and groggy, she rescues his Knicks shirt from the pile and slips it over her head as she stumbles to his bedroom, and it’s everything.


End file.
